Sitting on the arm-rest between the two front seats of the car, looking out of the front window while father drove.
The cigarette smoke. Medical visitors coming to the house to check my breathing, and having to puff down a cardboard tube into a meter, are among my earliest memories. Parents smoked everywhere, and the house was blue with the fumes. Asking my mother, "why are your fingers yellow?" is another early recollection.
Being strapped to the bed around my wrists and the bedframe with my father's belts, to go to sleep.
Being threatened with being taken away or having brain vivisection carried out on me at the slightest hint of misbehaviour. Well, a little child would only know to believe their parents.
The violence. Literally shaking all through the weekend when my father was home, waiting for the next explosion. I was taken to the doctor for nervous behaviour but the village medic said it was all down to my attitude. Prescribed Valium which I once took accidentally to OD because I was hungry at school.
Crikey, I didn't know it was going to go this dark. From ages 3 to 18, by the way. Apparently, I'm a very peaceful senior educator and personal tutor these days, my annual appraisals tell me. And, apart from all that, my parents really valued education; they were both self-taught, before and during the war.